


Forces in Motion

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Another wall slam fic, Epsiode 02 The Book, M/M, Plot What Plot, aziraphale's pov, sorry no smut just Aziraphale gazing adoringly at Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: Crowley slams Aziraphale against a wall. The author pretends that she understands physics. That’s the plot.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Good Omens Meta posts on Dreamwidth](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/542245) by Owl Boy. 



Aziraphale has never been one for physics. Deliberately seeking to understand the mathematical intricacies of the universe has always felt, for him at least, like impertinently rummaging around in the Almighty’s head. You can’t hang around with humans (or Crowley) for 6000 years without picking some things up though. For example, Aziraphale knows that there is a natural tendency of objects to keep on doing what they’re doing unless acted upon by an outside force.

If it wasn’t for the outside force of Crowley, Aziraphale is aware that he would probably still be puttering along in inertia, dodging questions about his flaming sword (or lack thereof), while trying to wrestle his doubts back into a box which is growing increasingly too small to hold them all. Crowley is always prodding, always picking and pushing and forcing Aziraphale to, if not move exactly, apply an equal and opposite force against him.

So when Crowley pushes him against the wall of the former convent, Aziraphale is not surprised.

He is also not scared.

Should he be scared? Possibly, but not for the reasons you’d think.

Aziraphale bows to physics, practically backing himself into the wall. Palm, then spine, then the crown of his head.

He is not scared and not surprised. What he is feeling can best be described as ‘oh!’ The soft sort that comes on an exhalation as the body relaxes. Even the worry cycle constantly turning in Aziraphale’s brain slows because there is very little room in there for anything except Crowley.

They are so close.

There’s a reason they got to this point.

Crowley was stressed. Oh very well, if Aziraphale is being honest with himself (which he rarely allows for reasons of his own sanity) then he would acknowledge that he was stressed too. Why else would he have been so provocatively smug in the car?

_(Ah, but evil always contains the Seeds of its own destruction.)_

Crowley stormed into the former convent, kicking in doors and snapping and snarling, less snake than cornered cat. An object in motion, always in motion. It makes Aziraphale dizzy sometimes but he can’t look away. He can’t look away now either. Have they ever been this close before? This at rest?

Aziraphale suspects Crowley’s door kicking was his fault too. He didn’t intend it but they were both stressed and how do you explain to somebody who can’t feel love how love feels? How they are loved?

_(You could miracle it away._

_Yes. But I’d always know the stain was there.)_

Aziraphale might as well have cupped Crowley’s face in both palms and said, _You see what you do for me, do you understand why you do it and what it means, my dear?_

Would that have been less problematic? Probably not.

After all, Aziraphale has had eighty years to consider fingers brushing over the handle of an old bag full of books while London burns.

Crowley has had twenty-minutes. Twenty-minutes in which he has realised exactly what he will lose by the end of the week.

But, of course, they daren’t speak of it.

Although Aziraphale did dare once. He spoke the unspeakable. Acknowledged that there was something to acknowledge.

_(You go to fast for me, Crowley.)_

Who’s speeding now?

Aziraphale’s heart is speeding. His breath is quickening. He can’t even formulate words enough to redirect Crowley’s anger with a barb about the creases the demon’s fingers will be leaving on his lapels.

Crowley is still snarling and Aziraphale can only trust that if the demon questions him later his angelic brain will be able to regurgitate the tirade word for word.

_(Of course you aren’t nice, my dear. My mistake. Big scary demon, that’s you all over.)_

All Aziraphale can do for the moment is notice.

Two eyes. ( _Amber? Gold? How can I tell when they’re hidden by those infernal sun glasses?_ )

Two hands, long fingers. ( _Really, my dear, I never will get the creases out._ )

One straight nose ( _so tempting to kiss the tip._ )

Two lips ( _how much outside force would it take for two mouths to meet when they’re this close anyway?_ )

Eyes again, still there. ( _You have beautiful eyes. Show them to me._ )

Aziraphale carefully breathes in.

Crowley swings his face round which is better (worse) because it means now Aziraphale can study his profile without getting caught. Eyes, nose, lips. Perfect.

Someone else is talking. How very dare they?

Aziraphale lets himself give Crowley’s mouth one last, lingering gaze and then turns his head too. Crowley is already back in motion, sauntering forward snapping his fingers.

The woman freezes.

Aziraphale hurries to catch up, putting himself delicately back together both internally and externally.

Crowley is still stressed. Aziraphale is…flustered. Not entirely sure he’s quite the thing, thank you very much. But you know how it is? We must all bear up under adversity.

The woman was a nun here eleven years ago.

Crowley is still stressed, but Aziraphale can’t help himself. “Luck of the Devil,” he murmurs.

He has his own force to exert after all. Not as flamboyant or as physical as Crowley’s, but it’s slow and steady, a river wearing away at rock, it is committed to the task at hand and will get it done eventually. Crowley’s expression suggests that he is one angelic snipe away from pushing Aziraphale up against a wall again. This is not an unpleasant thought and Aziraphale looks away from Crowley’s irritation, biting on the inside of his cheek. Best not think about eyes and lips and hands. Think instead about physics and the push and pull of two forces, neither really moving beyond the other in an awkward, cautious dance that keeps them balanced. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's pov.

Crowley never really worried about physics when he was forging the stars; it was more creative process than mathematics. Now though it gives him some comfort to see the ways in which the universe can be pinned down in formulae. He is reassured that the Almighty has at least some idea what is going on. He wished he did too.

Crowley has spent the last eleven (6000) years bouncing about in reaction to external forces beyond his control that are intent on knocking him off his own carefully planned trajectory. Now the one constant in his life, the one person who he can feel at rest with is being a right little bitch about everything.

( _Ah, but evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.)_

It was just a cock up!

Although Aziraphale has every right to be stressed out and pushing back with his own special brand of passive aggressiveness _he_ is not the one who will be punished by Hell for losing the master’s son. However, Aziraphale's smugness about the infernal (ineffably infernal? Could that be a thing?) plan is not the bit that has currently knocked Crowley out of orbit and sent him spiraling in to the middle of the emotional equivalent of an asteroid storm. No. What has really got him bouncing about inside his own head is Aziraphale choosing this precise fucking moment to carry out instruction on what love feels like.

Of course, Aziraphale didn't explain it outright because apparently even the approach of Armageddon is not enough to get him to say what he actually means. After 6000 years though Crowley can speak fluent Aziraphale and he gets the message, although it takes a while for the realisation to drop like a penny in one of those stupid magic tricks. 

( _You could miracle it away._

 _Yes. But I’d always know the stain was there._ )

Aziraphale might as well have cupped Crowley’s face in both palms and said _, I see all that you do for me, and I know you understand what that means, my dear._

Tell the whole blessed world why don't you? Put it in a greetings card, get it sky written. 

And it's fine. Crowley knew it deep down anyway, right? All those acts of service had another name, he knew that. Right? 

It’s just that until this moment he’s never been a hundred per cent sure that Aziraphale knew it too because they have agreed to never talk about it.

Except of course when they do. It's the second time he's been hit with this in 52 years.

And I go to fast for you, angel? Really?

_Ohshitohshitihshit._

It’s a lot to process here at the end of the fucking world. How are you supposed to react to potentially losing something when you’ve only just realised that it could be yours? Way to raise the stakes, angel. So when Crowley gets called ‘nice’ you can't blame a demon for flipping, right? Right? But here's the absolute nightmare of it: there's no one he'd rather flip out at than Aziraphale.

Aziraphale just gets it. He absorbs the force of Crowley's violence and anger. He balances it out and brings them to rest, and Crowley is snapping and snarling and he doesn't even know what about any more ( _but it sounds cool though? Big scary demon, yeah? Not at all like I’m in love with you. Being in love with an angel is so last millennia_.)

And Aziraphale is just there, completely at home in the situation and himself. His nose barely touching Crowley's, those galaxy blue eyes wide, and he inhales. It may even be an ‘oh’ that his soft lips are shaping.

_Ohshitohshitihshit_

They're so close and Crowley is creasing the lapels of Aziraphale's jacket and the angel doesn't even call him on it. His head rests back against the wall, chin slightly tilted up as those eyes lazily carry out an inventory of Crowley's face.

( _What do you see, angel? Do you like it? Tell me, please_.)

All Crowley can do is keep snarling because even Aziraphale's softness can't make this force inside him stop. Or it could, maybe, if he could touch it, but he can’t and it’s tearing him apart.

“I’m sorry if I’m breaking in on an…intimate moment…”

( _Demons do not have intimate moments. Especially not in corridors with angels._ )

Crowley’s head swings round. He's almost grateful. Aziraphale's eyes are still on him, holding him fast. It takes a concerted effort of will to pull away, but ex-nun lady is somewhere else to direct his force.

There’s a beat before Aziraphale follows as though they have all the time in the world. At least he looks calm now, although his lips are pursed and he's fussing about with his clothes. Doesn’t stop him sniping about Crowley freezing ex-nun lady and needling him about ‘luck of the Devil’.

Crowley bites down on a growl. Aziraphale lifts his chin again and Crowley remembers not all forces push outwards. Some are solid and sure of their course ( _most of the time and even when you think they're wrong_ ) and your'e barely aware that they're there until you smack right into them. They are not as easily derailed as his own scatter-gun exertions.

Crowley also reckons he’s one more provocation from slamming this particular force back against the wall.

The fact that Aziraphale looks like he might just enjoy that throws Crowley slightly. The look is gone as soon as it appears. Aziraphale’s face is back at rest, but it doesn’t do to dwell on that, or the comfort of a bookshop's back room and the thudding of a heart that you’re not supposed to have. Think instead about physics and the push and pull of two forces, neither really moving beyond the other in an awkward, cautious dance that keeps them balanced and that maybe one day can bring themselves to rest.


End file.
